Rhinestones Falling
by Riddelly
Summary: Even with all the aliens and time travel and utter insanity that her life had become, Amy Pond never really believed in angels. Three-shot
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** _Some fan videos got me utterly addicted to this pairing, strange as it is. It's just... something about it is insanely adorable. Hopefully I did them justice!_

**Rated K plus** _for some violence and language_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

_So call the mainland from the beach  
Your heart is now washed up in bleach  
The waves are rising for this time of year  
And nobody knows what to do with the heat  
Under sunshine pylons we'll meet  
While rain is falling like rhinestones from the sky_

* * *

"What do you mean, an _angel?" _Amy repeats for the hundredth time, rising up to get a better view as the Doctor fiddles about with the underside of the TARDIS's console, twisting a particularly shiny silver knob back and forth as if attempting to screw it in more tightly. "Like… it's not like he's actually from… Heaven, or whatever." She adds a small snort at the end of her sentence, farther emphasizing the utter ridiculousness of the very prospect.

"That's exactly what I mean." He sounds almost grumpy, dropping the usual affectionate reference to her by her surname. "And I know you aren't willing to believe it, you silly skeptical person, which is exactly why I'm trying to fix this so that we can hurry up and pay him a visit already…" A small groan of frustration escapes his lips as the entire TARDIS issues a whining noise, as if in protest to his tinkering.

"But—but angels aren't _real," _Amy insists, cocking a single eyebrow that the Doctor, hands now fully submerged in a tangle of wires, can't see. "You mean some alien, right? Like those ghosts you told me about. They weren't _real _ghosts, just… gaseous creatures, or whatever."

"Those weren't real ghosts, no. But there _are _real ghosts, mind you—I've only met one once, it's almost like they stay out of my way on purpose." He sounds almost disappointed, which she can't help but roll her eyes at, even with disbelief rising in her chest. Then again, if aliens are real, why not supernatural entities, too? "And angels, too. Granted, they're not quite as pleasant as people would like you to believe—gave up those lovely little harps quite a while back, and the ones in male vessels have been in trousers for centuries—but this one is nice enough. Aha!"

A shower of sparks shoot up in the air, illuminating the Doctor's profile, and a grin breaks over his face. "Told you I'd get it!" he tells her, shaking a finger in her direction and sounding, despite his words, almost as astonished at his success as she is. "Now, let's go meet us an angel, shall we?"

He springs up and is racing to the main level of the TARDIS before she can so much as turn around, and she has to hurry to keep up with him, her hand tight on the railing and her ginger hair, tinted with gold under the bronzy lights of the machine, sailing behind her. "Where is he, anyways?"

"America. He's got a bit of trouble he's taking care of over there at the moment—well, I say a bit of trouble, I'm fairly sure it's the biblical Apocalypse. Nothing he won't be able to take a little time off of, though. In fact, time won't even be involved." With a wink, he flourishingly gestures around them, at the TARDIS's wide bronze walls. "No one else has quite the knack for dealing with Silurians that Cas does. I think they can tell something about him, you know? Like they pick up on that angel vibe. It's useful, in any case."

"So, what? We're just going to pick him up, take him to deal with the Silurians, and then… drop him back off again?"

"Don't make it sound procedural!" the Doctor replies, his tone a careful balance between humorous and reprimanding. "I hate procedure, it's awfully boring. The way I see it, he needs a break from the stress of dealing with the end of the world, and I have a perfect way to provide it."

"By dealing with homicidal aliens?"

"You're a bit grumpy today, aren't you?"

Grumpy isn't quite the word to describe it. More accurately, she just doesn't want another person dragged onboard with her and the Doctor, especially not some religious nut with wings. She's here for aliens, not… angels, and demons, and whatever else this weirdo might inadvertently bring with his presence. But she just shrugs, leaning back and wrapping her fingers around the railing as the TARDIS, finally repaired, sets of for what's presumably America. It's only one trip, after all, she reminds herself. Then it'll be back to just the two of them.

The groaning hiss of the TARDIS's landing fades away into silence, and the Doctor rushes over to the door, a grin on his face even before he throws it open. Lying outside is an expanse of grassy sand, dotted here and there with pebbles which eventually merge into a wide grey lake. It's a quiet place—almost dismal, but something about it radiates peace more than despondency. And standing on the shore, gazing out into the minute, rippling waves, is a figure—tall, lean, dark-haired, and wearing a pale tan trench coat that lifts in the wind.

"Castiel!" the Doctor calls cheerily, poking his head outside.

The man turns, and the first thing Amy notices are his eyes—alarmingly bright blue eyes, which send a jolt through her even from several yards away. He has a rather good-looking face, though it's darkened by a solemn expression. He looks almost _normal, _despite the eyes—nothing like how she'd expect an angel to appear.

"Doctor," Castiel greets, striding over. He has a low, strong voice, American-accented—powerful, but not intimidating. He hesitates immediately before the TARDIS, his azure stare shifting from the Doctor to Amy. "And… this must be your companion?"

"Amy Pond," the Doctor proclaims, pride vivid in the warmth of his voice. "The best of the best, naturally."

Amy laughs and shakes her head. "No, nothing like that. It's nice to meet you, though, Castiel—the Doctor's told me about you."

He nods, his eyes lingering on her even as he speaks to the Doctor. "You contacted me… there's a problem with Silurians again, yes?"

"A bit of one, yes_._" The Doctor takes a step back, gesturing towards the interior of the TARDIS. "Come on in, it's rather chilly out here…"

Amy copies the action, leaving room for Castiel to follow her, taking in the wide golden arches of the time machine's interior. "This place has changed since I last came along with you… changed almost as much as you have, yourself."

"Hm? Oh—" The Doctor lifts a hand to his own face, running it along his jaw and chin. "This, yes. New regeneration! Well, somewhat new, I've had it for a bit now… different, in any case. Very different. How could you even tell it was me, come to think of it?"

"You have an energy about you that's difficult to mistake," Castiel murmurs. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his long coat and tilts his chin back, scanning the ceiling. "As does your machine."

Amy can't stand it anymore—he's just so _odd, _like he can't quite find a place in the human world. So she blurts out her words before she gives herself a chance to second-guess them, consider how they might be seen as nagging or impolite. "The Doctor said you were an angel."

"I'm not a very good one," he replies immediately, his shoulders shifting in a silent sigh. "Not since Lucifer began and the Apocalypse began… I am… on the opposite side of most of them. There are other people whom I've chosen to ally myself with."

Amy's eyes widen, and she stares at the Doctor over Castiel's shoulder, mouthing silently—_Lucifer? _He only shrugs in response, but looks rather delighted, as though the concept of the Devil really existing is the most wonderful thing he's heard in ages. She's not quite so sure how to react—it's interesting, she supposes, but a bit terrifying, too. Well, more than a bit.

"That's… well… good for you," she says awkwardly, her lips quirking into a smile. He glances back over his shoulder, a hint of surprise shining through his stoic features.

"Not many would say so. I have been called a disgrace to my kind on multiple occasions."

There's no proper way to respond to that, and she ends up settling for an uncertain and probably painful remark. "I guess I haven't met any of them, so I can't really make the comparison, right?"

"That is one way to see it."

The Doctor suddenly brings his hands together in a sharp clap, causing Amy to jump slightly—she'd been completely locked in on Castiel's sapphire-colored eyes, she realizes now with a surge of embarrassment. She makes sure to focus her attention on the Doctor, instead—maybe it's her imagination, but she thinks she can still feel the slightest prickle of Castiel's stare on herself.

"Right, then," the Time Lord declares, "off to London, is it?"

"Perhaps you should tell me more about this Silurian problem beforehand," Castiel suggests. "So that I'm aware of what we are up against."

There's an odd pattern to his speech, Amy notes now—awfully formal, with sparing use of contractions. It adds to his impression of stiffness, but also is strangely endearing.

"Yes, yes, that," the Doctor mutters, whacking himself lightly in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Well, Amy and I were just dropping by London, present time, to pick up a bite to eat—she had a particular craving for one restaurant, it would seem." He tilts an accusing finger in her direction, and Castiel's eyes flicker over to her again, brows drawing together.

She laughs self-consciously. "What? I went to the place once as a kid, it was the best hamburger I've ever tasted. Of course I'd take advantage of a machine that can travel anywhere across space in a few seconds, right?"

The silence afterwards is rather awkward, but thankfully only lasts for a few seconds before Castiel turns back to the Doctor. "Go on," he prompts.

He continues immediately. "So while we were there, we heard about some sort of street gang that's been acting up lately. Supposedly, they camp out in the grungiest tube stations they can find, where no one can ever bother to kick them out, and there's a string of violence and theft wherever they go. No big deal, you'd think, only there was also a rumor, treated like some sort of… ghost story, sort of, about these people—that they always wear hoods, but underneath, they have scaly faces. Spooky, right?" he offers jokingly. Castiel's expression doesn't so much as twitch, and Amy stifles a giggle at the Doctor's expense. He sniffs and goes on. "Anyhoo, we decided to take a look, naturally. There was… a bit of a chase, but it turns out there are indeed a number of them living in London. Heavens know how they got there—or, well, maybe not," he amends with a grin towards Castiel, "but they're there now, in any case, and I'd like to try and pacify them a bit. Of course, you have a bit of a way with them, so here we came!"

"You'd do best not to overestimate what I can do," Castiel warns, looking up from the lowered expression he'd donned over the course of the Doctor's explanation. "Just because that group a while ago were fond of me does not mean that all of them will be."

"Yes, but, well… you're our only hope now, Cas, come on. We tried our best with them, believe you me, but… they wouldn't have any of it."

Castiel sighs, but also nods, straightening his shoulders a bit. "I will do my best, Doctor. Just be sure that you can get me back here at the same time I departed… the Winchesters are relying on me, and angels' time travel is much more… taxing than that of the Time Lords."

"Not a problem, not a problem!" the Doctor crows, prancing over to assign the console coordinates. "Any effort on your part will be absolutely brilliant, believe you me. Your… Winchesters?... won't even know you've been gone."

_Winchesters. _The name, perhaps, of the humans Castiel has been working with. Siblings? Partners? She has no idea, and supposes that she never will. Everything about the angel is mysterious, really—what he's doing on Earth, his alliances, his history…

Well, it's not any of her business to become involved with that. He's only here to help with the Silurians, and that's all she expects of him.

* * *

Two hours later, Amy is bound, gagged, and strapped to a wooden chair in a small, dark room with no memory of what got her here. Bitterness surges in her mouth and chest, and a single thought dominates her mind with its desperate brilliance: _Where the hell is the Doctor? _

There's blackness everywhere she looks. Nothing but solid pitch shade. She tries to struggle, but there's some sort of thick, bristly rope cutting into the fragile skin of her wrists, which she wants to avoid aggravating. Instead, she clenches her teeth together and her eyes shut, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths.

_Think. What happened?_

She and the Doctor—and Castiel, the angel—the three of them had landed in London, and headed directly for the back alley that they knew the hooded Silurians to hang around in during the daytime. It was a desolate place, especially with the dense London fog filling the space. She can't remember actually finding any of the aliens—a pang strikes the back of her head, and a small whimper escapes her lips. Headache. In a very precise place, a throbbing past along the back of her skull—just about the size of a tight fist.

_Oh…_

She strains even harder at her memory, fighting to recollect something, anything other than the alleyway. She… she got separated from the Doctor and Castiel, after a couple of minutes of searching. Not too far away, but perhaps she thought she saw something—yes, that's it. Movement in an open garage. She went to investigate, got just inside, and then…

And then _what?_

They must have gotten her. That's all she can imagine. The Silurians, presumably, though it could have been anyone, really. And here she is now, choking on moldy fabric that's crammed into her mouth to prevent screams, with her wrists strapped tightly to the arms of a weak wooden chair.

She needs the Doctor.

Once again, she opens her eyes and stares as hard into the darkness as is physically possible, fighting to be able to see something, anything—a single shape in the gloom would be better than this emptiness—but to no avail. Despite her best efforts, panic begins to rise inside of her. Who's to say that the Doctor will find her here? What if she starves, or dies from lack of oxygen? What if—

_Damn it. _She's gotten out of worse situations than this—surely she has. The vampire aliens, in Venice—the Doctor saved her from those, right? She can survive just being trapped in a basement. She's not going to be this pathetic, for God's sake.

This is reassuring, and she holds onto it as she begins to test her bindings again, wiggling her hands and straining her legs. Her wrists and ankles are both roped to the chair, which feels very solid underneath her—old wood, probably. Okay. Deep breath. Maybe she can break the chair if she tips it over.

_Yeah, and break your neck, too. _

It's her only hope, though, and she's not just going to sit down here and wait to be rescued. So she takes a long, steady breath, shakes her head to clear strands of hair out of her eyes, and tenses her wrists before jerking sharply to the side. The chair rocks slightly, but it's heavy, and doesn't tip. Swallow. Keep breathing. Her heart is racing up her throat, but she jerks again, gaining notable momentum, and then one final time.

For a moment, she and the chair are suspended in the air, and it's terrifying—her stomach flies to her throat, and a scream battles the gag in her mouth. Then all the wind is knocked out of her lungs as she collides with a cold cement floor, sending a jolt of pain up her shoulder and through her spine. She gasps and chokes on the fabric on her mouth, agonized stars flying before her eyes, momentarily paralyzed.

_Doctor—!_

It takes several long, tense seconds for the pain to fade away, and even then there's a sharp ache along her entire left side. She's on the ground, though, she realizes slowly—she achieved what she meant to, right? With this thought in mind, she tests each of her tied-up limbs again, feeling a disappointed flip in her stomach as she discovers that each one is just as tight as ever. _Damn it. _Tipping didn't cause the chair to so much as splinter, apparently—and now she's horizontal, with a chill seeping into her cheek and her neck aching with strain.

_Think of something else, then. There has to be a way out of this. There's a way out of everything._

Before she can resume brainstorming, though, a high-pitched creak assaults her ears, and a faint, dusty puddle of light penetrates the darkness before her. Ignoring the sharp pains in her neck, she forces herself to look up, her breath coming short. A thin staircase is outlined in blurry sepia, and, standing at the top, a tall, slim figure.

For a moment, her heart races ahead of her—_is it the Doctor? Is he finally here?_—but then a voice floats down the stairs, and distress wells up inside of her. It's not him—in fact, it's female, smooth and low and tinged with some accent she can't quite place.

"You know, human girl, we don't take kindly to people invading our personal business."

She tries not to whimper as a light bulb flickers to light overhead, instead wincing and half-closing her eyes against the amber glare. The door shuts with a crisp bang, and the Silurian woman begins to descend the staircase. Amy's eyes slowly begin to adjust to the dim light, enough to make out that she's in a small room with a damp, cracked cement floor and greyish tan walls patched with mold. It's bare of furniture, but the layout makes it look as though it could be the basement of some abandoned apartment building, or something of the like.

"See, we mostly just keep to ourselves. We're not nearly as bad as half of those _human _street gangs out there, are we? And yet we're the ones you always seem to come after."

_Please, _she wants to say—_please, we didn't want to harm you, only talk, only ask you not to hurt people anymore… _but the gag muffles any attempt at speech, and she suffices to remain silent, her eyes wide as the Silurian strides across the floor and kneels in front of her, sneering. Her face is indeed covered by green scales, and some of her features are slightly less than human, lizard-like. Other than that, though, she appears to be a person—a rather furious-looking person, her eyes narrowed to fierce slits and her lips pulled back from her teeth.

"We didn't _ask _to be here, see," she goes on, spitting out each word. "It's not our fault to exist here, on this planet, in this time… we're not _meant _to. It's unnatural and demented, but _if we're going to be here, we are going to use it to our advantage, damn it." _

Amy whimpers—she can't help it. She feels unwillingly _vulnerable, _lying on the floor like this with a much larger, powerful woman looming over her with that crazed look in her eyes.

"We saw the other two with you," she goes on. "The men. Maybe it'll teach them a lesson if we take care of you." Then there's a knife in her hand—oh, hell, it's a _knife, _blade glittering in the syrupy light, and she feels like she'd throw up if not for the gag in her mouth—tears are welling in her eyes, _Doctor, please, _it's not supposed to end like this—

_—Bang—_

She gasps, and her eyes sting as dust fills the air, burning against them. The Silurian releases a yelp of shock and confusion, and she squints to see the scaly alien woman thrown violently aside by a figure, shadowed in comparison to the light shining down the stairwell—_the door, _she realizes, the door has been knocked clean off its hinges and crashed down the stairs, and someone's here—_the Doctor? _But he wouldn't be so violent with the Silurian… her eyes are blurred with tears from her fear and from the thick, dusty air, but there are warm hands on her shoulders, pulling her upright, and then the gag is ripped away from her mouth, causing her head to jerk forward.

"Are you alright?"

It takes a moment for her still-lagging mind to put a face to the low voice, but then she does, just as she looks up to see the bright blue eyes inches away from her.

"Castiel?" she exclaims in confusion.

_"Are you alright?" _

"Yeah, of course, I'm fine—where's the Doctor?"

"Coming." He roughly unbinds her hands and feet, then stands up, his coat billowing behind him as he whips around to face the Silurian, who's cowering in a corner, a snarl curling her features. Amy frowns and rubs at her bruised wrists, confused and fragmented thoughts flying through her brain at a million miles an hour as Castiel strides up to the Silurian and glowers down towards her.

"I was called here to deal peacefully with you," he breathes, his voice quiet and yet somehow all the more deadly for being so. "To talk to you, and see if you would cooperate better."

The Silurian hisses in a very reptilian manner, shoving herself even farther up against the wall. He only steps in closer, so that they're the same distance apart as before.

"But if you're only going to kidnap and harm innocent humans… then that makes you lower than them. I am more powerful than you can fathom, you poor creature, and all I will say is that if your race intends to survive for long in an environment like this, they'd do best to keep themselves away from the business of humanity." Every one of his words is bright and fierce, fiery. With that, he turns around and starts towards the staircase. He shoots a single word in Amy's direction—"Hurry"—and she hastens to scramble to her feet, following him. The stairs creak under her feet, and her muscles are still throbbing with the pain of tripping herself over in the chair, but she feels better, much better, now that she's free, and she can't quite take her eyes away from Castiel. He acted as if it was normal, but there's no way to beat around the fact that he just _saved _her. She should probably thank him, but he doesn't seem like he's expecting it…

Luckily, her thoughts are cut off by the sight at the top of the stairs—parked there is the TARDIS, the door wide open and the Doctor standing inside, looking uncharacteristically tense. "Pond!" he cries out as soon as he sees her. "Oh, wonderful, so you're alright, then?"

Her face breaks into a grin at the sight of him, and she dashes into his open arms, looping her own around his shoulders and squeezing him as tight as she can. "I'm brilliant," she promises. She inhales deeply, savoring the smell of his shirt, and can't help but giggle with euphoria. _I made it. Just like I said I would. _

"Good," he chuckles in response. "Cas—?"

"The Silurians should not be of farther disruption," the angel mutters. He's at the side of the console now, his head tilted down and his hands tucked back in his pockets, as Amy sees once she pulls away from the Doctor. "If you will deliver me back to my own place now…"

"Of course," the Doctor agrees cheerily, bounding over to the console. "America it is!"

Amy laughs again, shaking her head in disbelief. She's jubilant enough from their victory and the Doctor's likewise enthusiasm, filled with a golden energy, that she doesn't think twice about the downwards tilt of Castiel's eyes, or the way that he doesn't speak another word for the rest of the journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** _And here's part two. If you ever read any of my Supernatural fics (particularly crossovers, for some reason) you'll find that I have a massive soft spot for hurt!Cas. I really can't help myself. _

**Thanks to** _linen-and-curls_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

When they drop Castiel off, Amy has no reason to believe that she'll ever see him again. She doesn't mind that much, though—he's nice, sweet for rescuing her, but she's eager to get back to the usual traveling with the Doctor. And with the Silurian problem out of the way, they finally manage to get that hamburger she's been craving.

It's just as delicious as she remembered, she reflects contentedly as she bites into the bun, savoring its soft warmth and the juicy flavor of the meat underneath. Sun beats down on her back—it's unusual weather for London, but very welcome, bathing the patio of the little café in warm, pale light. She makes sure to chew slowly, then swallows in a fluid motion, her breath coming back up in a laugh.

"Like you remembered?" the Doctor asks with a grin. He's sitting across from her, his elbows on the table and an oddly orange-colored smoothie sitting in a tall glass in front of him. It's topped off with a ridiculous tower of whipped cream, and looks delicious enough that Amy leans forward, twisting the straw around to get a sip, herself. Its flavor is a crisply exotic blend of mango and pineapple—absolutely delicious.

"Just like I remembered," she agrees. "Like heaven."

"If you get some of mine, I get some of yours," the Doctor chides, leaning forward and lifting her burger. She rolls her eyes but doesn't protest as he takes a bite, much larger than her small sip. His eyes grow wide as he sets what remains back on her plate.

"Now, _that,_" he chuckles, "is absolutely amazing, Amelia. Why on Earth haven't you asked to come here before?"

"I was a bit busy, you know, seeing the universe," she snorts. "And saving something or other more than half the time, it seems."

"You were the one _being _saved."

"Oh, shut up."

"Really, though…" His eyes darken slightly, and he leans in, his tone growing more serious. "If I had known that you'd be in any danger at all—"

"Doctor. It's fine." She takes another large bite of the hamburger, speaking through a full mouth. "'Sides, Castiel took care of me, right?"

"Indeed he did." The Doctor leans back, relaxing once more. "He really is a wonderful bloke, that Cas. He's been through a lot, too. But the Silurians always seem to see something in him… maybe he was friends with a few of them at some point in his life."

"What, with the Silurians?" She raises one eyebrow in disbelief. "They hardly seem like a pleasant lot."

"Well, you haven't exactly met the best of them," he points out, looking a bit guilty. "These ones, and then the others back on 2020 Earth…" For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something else, but then his expression closes off all at once, and he looks down, folding and unfolding his hands rather compulsively in his lap.

Amy frowns, tilts her head. "Doctor?"

"What?" His reaction is sudden and defensive, almost harsh, alarming enough for her eyes to widen and for her to set down the burger, retracting her hands.

"Nothing, I guess, I just—I just was wondering… why you looked… never mind, I guess."

"Sorry," he murmurs, his voice growing softer. When she only stares at the tabletop, he leans in and wraps his fingers around her wrist, forcing her to glance up and meet his eyes, which are wide and light and apologetic. "Really, Amy, I mean it. It's been a long day, that's all. A very long day."

She sighs. "Yeah, tell me about it. Back to the TARDIS after this, then? Sleep?"

"Definitely," the Doctor agrees, sounding relieved at her change of subject. "And something else tomorrow, right? Something that hopefully doesn't involve scaly green people attempting to murder you."

"Hopefully," she agrees, smiling once more.

* * *

She does her best to forget about the Silurians after that, and with them Castiel. The last thing she expects is to encounter the angel again, and, appropriately, she doesn't—that is, not for what's probably a month or two in her personal linear time. But then, one day, she and the Doctor are headed for America once again. It's a casual trip—the Doctor had heard about some strange disappearances in a town in Kansas, suspected that they might be alien-related, and suggested that they "just stop by and take a peek," see if they could do anything.

Of course, it's not really the preferable journey, but after weeks of casual traveling, there's also something tempting about the prospect of going somewhere with an actual mission, a job, almost. _Figure out what's going on, make sure no one gets hurt. _It'll give her a sense of achievement, and that will certainly be nice.

"Here we are!" the Doctor announces as soon as the TARDIS lands, gripping the console and leaning back on his heels excitedly. "Good old America, present day. Well, your present day. Technically speaking, mine is several—"

"Doctor?"

The voice—low, American, and somehow familiar, though Amy can't quite place it—seems to come out of nowhere. She whirls around, a gasp flying from her lips, and there he is—_Castiel. _The angel, complete with the exact same trench coat as before, watching them in furrowed-brow confusion.

"Cas!" the Doctor exclaims. "What are you—how—?"

"What are you doing here?" Castiel demands, no humor in his tone. "This is no place for you."

"There were disappearances," Amy explains, wondering if she should greet him or merely answer his questions. He seems more stressed than before, his eyes wide and his facial muscles tense. "We were coming to see if aliens had anything to do with it."

"They don't," Cas confirms stiffly. "And now your machine has landed in the center of a police investigation, with people growing very suspicious of it. You are both lucky that I happened to be nearby."

"Oh, dear, the _middle _of an investigation? Really? I meant to come at night…" the Doctor worries.

"The most recent girl vanished after dark, Doctor. Mere hours ago. Of course the law enforcement is here."

"Hey, don't act so matter-of-fact! Last time I checked, you've made some pretty spectacular mistakes with the cops, yourself…"

"This is not a joking matter, Doctor," Castiel insists. "They will not hesitate to imprison you. You would be best advised to leave her without exiting the TARDIS. The men with me, the Winchesters… they are wholly capable of destroying the creature that stole these people."

"Hmph," the Doctor sniffs. "Well, fine, then. If you're so sure. Thanks, I suppose."

Castiel's chin dips in a shallow nod, and then Amy's barely blinked when he's gone, not leaving so much as a breeze in his place—simply there one moment, and vanished the next.

"Well, then," she says, her voice practically echoing in the TARDIS, which suddenly feels very empty. "I guess we should stay out of here."

"So it would seem," the Doctor agrees, sounding far from happy about it. He turns around, though, swiping a few new directions into the console. "Not to worry, there's still all matter of places to head to. You've never been to Adipose 5, have you? It's not exactly doing its best lately, but of course there's no reason that _lately _should be our destination…"

* * *

It's easy enough, that time, to target their meeting as pure coincidence. It's not the last time that the angel visits the TARDIS, though—soon enough, Amy learns that Castiel isn't only limited to teleporting in when the machine is parked. He's just as capable of materializing while they're drifting through the time vortex, and when the Doctor eagerly questions how such a thing is possible, he's quick to explain—something about tracking down their energy, time and space travel, "physically costly but sometimes necessary."

That third time, he doesn't seem to have a real reason for coming, only mutters something hastily about being chased and needing somewhere to flee to. He doesn't say anything about why the middle of space-time is a rather odd destination to choose, and so the Doctor and Amy don't question it, just allow him the time he needs to catch his breath. He doesn't stay for more than ten minutes.

The fourth time, though, lasts longer. He comes in flight once again, claiming with heavy apology that they're the only people he can trust, and they once more don't ask questions, only make sure he's alright. He's beginning to become a familiar face at this point, and after his fifth, sixth, and seventh times dropping by, he's practically the third occupant of the TARDIS, just as legitimate of a companion as Amy.

Eventually, he doesn't even need an excuse to come by. The Doctor and Amy have given up questioning it—in fact, sometimes it takes them a while to notice; there are a couple of memorable occasions when the Doctor actually begins talking to Castiel in an entirely casual manner before realizing that he's just appeared out of thin air with no explanation. He comes perhaps two days in each of their time-bending semblances of a week. Sometimes, he visits planets with them—they've taught him gradually but effectively not to declare his species to everyone they meet, so that he blends in with them well enough. His slight oddness is overshadowed by the flamboyantly bizarre figure of the Doctor, in any case.

Neither of them realize how much they're beginning to depend on him. He works them out of several sticky situations with all manner of his powers—everything from teleportation to mind-reading to basic skills with a knife. He never asks for gratitude, and, after a while, they don't really provide it. He's their friend, and they're his friends, and that's how it is. Just a trio, and the fact that he gives more than either of them goes smoothly unnoticed. Amy only has eyes for the Doctor, after all—he's the one that she came along for, the one that she's been infatuated with since childhood, and she pays no regard to the fact that, after a while, Castiel starts to look at her in the same way that she looks at the Doctor—admiring, enraptured by the pure enthusiastic energy contained in a single being. Of course, he almost never meets her eyes when she looks at him, but she doesn't do so very often, anyways.

She's certainly fond of him, though. He's sweet. A little awkward, but in a way that's really just endearing. It gets to the point where she's glad to see him in the morning—that's how it happens, usually; she'll get up from her bunk bed, throw on a robe, and wander out into the console bay, only to find the Doctor and Castiel sitting on one of the benches, the former chatting avidly and sipping at some alien form of coffee while the latter listens quietly and courteously.

She doesn't wonder why he keeps coming back. Perhaps she assumes that it's just because he wants an escape from his usual life, and perhaps she's right about that—he's always stressed when he first arrives, in any case. Sometimes much more so than others, but it's always there: a tension around his eyes, a tightness to his lips, a stiffness in his neck. And then, over the next few minutes or hours, it will begin to fade away. On very infrequent occasion, he'll even crack a smile, but it's small, shy, and she's never heard him laugh. She can't even imagine what it would sound like.

He's always gone by the time she and the Doctor decide to go to bed. Sometimes with a goodbye, sometimes without so much as a flicker. His arrivals and departures are infrequent enough, unnoticeable enough that half the time Amy isn't even sure whether he's present or not. She completely loses track of how many times he's come by, but it must be around the twentieth or thirtieth that, for the first time, he arrives not in a whisper, but a shout.

Regardless, she wouldn't have noticed it if she wasn't already in the console room, leaning against the wall and gazing at the pale blue column striking through the middle of it. It's something she does rather often, actually—come out here, once the Doctor is asleep, just in her pajamas and robe, and listen to the sounds of the universe. It never stops being amazing, really, no matter how many times she'll sit there and let it all wash over here. Because outside is infinity—space, time, reality, all swirling and bending around the TARDIS, stopped by its presence when they'd merely rip apart any dismal object.

The very concept amazes her.

And it's relaxing, too, very relaxing to sit back and gaze at the golden blue light filling the space. Sometimes, she imagines that she can see other galaxies contained in the spinning dust motes that arch around the room—that they're little worlds contained unto themselves, carrying just as much impossibility and diversity as the one she's in. It's silent save the soft churning of the TARDIS's inner workings and the faint, faint rush of the vortex outside, and she's half-dozing off, her thoughts spiraling about aimlessly, wandering in circles and rebounding off of her skull, when the crash comes.

Less of a crash, though, and more of a crack—a heavy, painfully loud crack, shooting through her ears and mind so that her eyes fly wide open and she exhales in a quick burst, only in time to be blinded by a huge flash of white light. She's on her feet before she can figure out how she got there, and for a moment, she can't see anything but the blazing afterimages of the pale burst. Her breath is coming quick, lungs convulsing, and sweat slicks her palms.

_What the hell—_

Then the ringing in her ears dies down, and she can hear it—the coarse gasps from the other side of the console, heavy and pained. Despite the caution that she should probably be maintaining, she can't resist the urge to stumble over, grasp the edge of the console and tentatively peer around the side.

It takes her a moment to process what she's seeing—it's him. Castiel, hunched over, barely holding himself on his knees. His hands are grasped over the left side of his ribcage, but she can see faint light shining through his fingers—a pale white glow, nothing much, but enough to send a chill down her spine.

"Cas?" she whispers.

He looks up, his eyes as wide and blue as always, and she realizes suddenly how pale he is. Her head is spinning—this all feels distant, unreal, and her stomach swerves as a trickle of blood slips from the corner of his mouth, streaking down his chin.

"Amy," he stutters out, the word rough and slurred. "I… hoped that you would… not be the one to find me…"

Then he pitches forward, eyelids fluttering, and she doesn't even think—she throws herself forward, reaching out to grasp his shoulders, hold him up. His head lolls forward, and she leans up against him, supporting him, his forehead resting against her shoulder.

"Cas," she whispers again, anxiety pounding away at her skull. What's wrong with him? He's hurt, obviously, but how? From what? The angel has always been the one to protect her, not the other way around, and suddenly… suddenly that's in _danger, _everything's in danger… "Cas, please, hold on, what's wrong?"

"A… a brother—Heaven… found me…"

Heaven. Heaven is _after _him? But he's an angel, right? And it's only now that she realizes how little she knows, begins to feel guilty for her utter ignorance. "Hold on," she implores, "tell me what's wrong…"

He's growing heavier and heavier in her arms, closer to deadweight. She feels violently sick at his injury, like it's grasping her, affecting her even though she's not at all physically hurt, herself. "Can you lie down for a second?" she asks, scouring her mind for some sort of idea of what to possibly do. "Let me see it…"

He slumps to the ground almost gratefully, his eyes half-closed—what's visible of the usually vibrant blue irises is clouded and vague. Biting down on her lip, she swipes a stray lock of dark red hair out of her eyes and moves her hands slowly to the long rip in his coat that he slowly moves his hands to reveal. The light shines much brighter without them to block it—she doesn't question it, deciding that it must be some sort of angel thing. Hands shaking, she pulls away the fabric, tearing a bit at the thin material of his shirt to reveal the flesh underneath—it's clearly a stab wound, and underneath all that white light is blood—a lot of blood, staining his shirt and running down his skin.

She swallows, and almost chokes in the process. She's seen him hurt before—nothing like this, but little things, a cut or a scratch here and there, and she remembers specifically that he doesn't bleed, not easily. Not unless he doesn't have the power sufficient to hold his vessel together.

"Oh my God—Cas—Cas, hold on, please," she implores, her gaze flitting back to his face. His bleary eyes focus slowly on her.

"Not… going to last… much longer," he whispers.

_"Castiel!" _she half-shouts, reaching up to grip his coat collar. The material is soft in her fingers, and she lifts it desperately, raising his head and shoulders from the floor again. Somehow, there are tears in her eyes—she's not sure where they came from, or when they materialized—spilling over the edges, running down her cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, it's just a little stab, just a tiny little stab! You're going to be fine, you idiot, you—please, come on—"

And then she can't _stop _ranting, and she's going on and on even as she tries to contain herself, because _oh god oh god she can't lose him _not here not now not because of this, and why is that anyways? He's not even here half the time, but now she wants him and _needs _him to stay alive, because he's the third part of the TARDIS crew, that awkward yet loyal, naïve but wise, confused but powerful and so, so necessary.

"Cas, don't do this to me now. You're stronger than this. You're the stupid strong angel boy, you've made it through so much more than this—you wouldn't do this to me, hm, would you? You wouldn't just appear out of nowhere and _die _on me, because that's stupid, that's ridiculous—Cas—_Cas—_no, come on, _please…_" Because his head is tilting back again, and he doesn't react when she shakes him, his eyes are closed and no no no no no—

_"Doctor!" _she screams, as loud as she possibly can, gripping him by the back of the coat and pulling him as close to her as she can, winding one hand through his hair, not caring about the heaviness of his limp body. "Cas, you won't do this, you're fine, you have to be fine—"

_Why is he suddenly so vital? _She never imagined that he could possibly _leave, _possibly _stop _being constantly there. She just—she doesn't want that, that emptiness, she won't be able to stand it, and maybe she's even been looking forward to each visit from him, even if she's barely thought about them—for that to be over, for the ridiculous brave thing that he is to be gone—her tears are everywhere, on herself, on him, and her head is aching and her lungs convulsing so heavily that she feels as if she might pass out, herself, but she stays up, holding onto him, so tightly that she barely realizes when the Doctor is next to her.

"Amy—Amy, what's wrong with him? Talk to me, Amy, come on…"

"He—he—he said he…" She can barely speak, but she forces herself to, blinking away the flood of tears to lock eyes with the Doctor. "He said he got st-stabbed… by—by his brother? Doctor, please, don't let him be dead, he can't be dead…"

"He's not dead," the Doctor promises immediately. He's dressed in pinstriped pajamas, which she might find funny some other time, but now she barely notices them. "He's definitely not dead, but he's also not going to last much longer without help… Amy, you need to let go of him, I think I might be able to do something."

"You can't lose him," she says frantically as the Doctor's hands settle onto Cas's shoulders, gently prying the unconscious angel away from her. "You need to make sure he—Doctor, I can't lose him."

"I know, Amelia," he whispers, gathering Cas up in his arms. It hits her—faintly, as if through a thick layer of numbness—that he looks close to tearing up, himself; his usually animated eyes are dark and flat, and his mouth is set in a thin line. "I know."

* * *

The next hour passes in a desperate, anxious blur, and all she's aware of is each step individually—bringing the Doctor medical supplies that he demands, holding things while he operates slowly, helping to carry Castiel to a spare bedroom—her arms ache, but she doesn't mind, because his warm weight is reassuring enough that it's a thousand times worth it. The minutes are both the swiftest and longest of her life, and she's extremely exhausted and yet still catching her breath when she and the Doctor stand outside of his room moments later, the latter closing the door quietly.

"Will he make it?" Her tears are long gone, staining her cheeks but leaving her eyes dry. She watches him with a cold expression, and he doesn't meet her stare, just looks down towards the ground, his forehead pressed against the wall.

"I hope so… I hope so. He's strong, Cas is, I really think he can pull it off, but… I don't know how much motivation he'll have, Amy, and that's the truth. His family did this to him. How much motivation do you really believe he has to stay alive at this point?"

She can't even comprehend what he's saying, can't process it—won't let herself. "What, you think he's—you think he's going to _let himself die?_"

"I don't know what I think." The Doctor shakes his head—once, slowly—and then turns, starting off down the hall. He's more dejected, more cold and gloomy than she can remember ever having seen him before. Like a whole other man entirely, not the Doctor she knows, but some distant, dark stranger. And it only rips her apart more to see her other best friend just as destroyed as Cas, on a different level—enough so that her tears are coming back now, and by the time he rounds the corner, she's sinking to the ground, covering her face and sobbing silently, her shoulders heaving.

_Just don't let me lose him. Don't let him leave. I can't—don't, please, please no, not Cas, anyone but Cas. _

Perhaps what hurts most is that he doesn't _deserve _to die. He's never done anything but help her, and now, to think that he might _die _in her care… the last few seconds keep playing in her mind, over and over, his cerulean eyes slipping shut, his body going limp… what if that turns out to be the last she ever sees of those gorgeous eyes, or the last movement from him that she ever feels?

Already, she can't even remember the last words he said to her.

She squeezes her eyes shut as tight as she can, bites down on her lip, and prays.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** _I wanted to have at least some sort of nod to Rory, but I'll admit it didn't really go anywhere. Oh, well; as hard as I ship Rory/Amy, Pondstiel is basically impossible when he's around. This is the last chapter, by the way. Thanks for everything, and I hope you check out my other stories!_

**Thanks to** _Guest and Whispering Darkness_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

It takes three days for Castiel to recover—sixty-two hours until he's gone from the verge of death to perfectly normal. And once he is on his feet again, he won't talk about it—he only brings it up once, the first time he comes out of his room, murmurs a few words to Amy under his breath—"I am sorry that you had to see that," nothing more. She barely has time to open her mouth, to try and say that there was nothing wrong at all with having to help him and the only bad thing he did was go and get himself stabbed in the first place—but then he brushes past her, towards the Doctor, instead, exchanges a few low, terse sentences that she can't quite here with the Time Lord.

And neither of them give her any explanation beyond that. It's clear enough that the Doctor understands much more about the origins of Cas's injury than she does, but he refuses to tell her, only changing the subject every time that she attempts to bring it up. She does know, though, that it must have been something massive, because after the incident, after the most terrifying night of her life—he doesn't leave anymore. Before, he'd merely flitted in and out of the TARDIS, but now he's a constant presence, and she decides that she likes it that way. It makes her feel safer, to be able to keep an eye on him at all times, and just to know that there's an angel at her back.

The Doctor notices.

* * *

He takes her aside one day, to a small, dusty corner of the TARDIS's massive library, where their words will be muffled behind thousands of silent pages. There's something odd about the way he carries himself—uncharacteristically nervous, delicate, and he practically guides her movements into a plush chair shoved against one of the high shelves, seemingly unable to keep his hands to himself.

"Doctor," Amy half-laughs, "are you alright?"

He pauses for a long moment, clasping one of her hands in both of his, and takes a slow, deep breath. "I'm about to do something huge," he says quietly, "and I'm not sure whether it's the right thing."

"You don't sound like yourself." She leans forward intently, rubbing his fingers, and tries to meet his eyes, but his gaze is cast determinedly downwards. "What's wrong? Tell me."

"…I've noticed the way you look at Cas." He says it all at once, biting out each of the words, and then pulls back, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets with swift anxiety, like he's waiting for her to process his words or something of the like.

"The way I look at him?" she repeats, frowning. His words hit some sort of wall in her brain—they don't make any sense. "What—what do you mean? I don't—I mean, I look at him like anyone else…"

"Amy. It's alright. I just want you to know… you _deserve _to know…"

"You're scaring me," she says, not even aware of the prickly emotion rising up inside of her until she says so. "What am I supposed to know? I don't get it—I don't look at him! I mean, I…"

"You have a husband," he says quietly, steadily, and it's like the other words she was intending to speak dissolve from her lips.

"I have a _what?" _Did she inadvertently marry some alien during one of their recent trips to foreign planets? She racks her brains, but can't come up with any interaction that could be a foreign marriage ritual—she doesn't think, also, about how something is boiling in her stomach, tapping around the edges of her throat with fierce, ripping nausea—it's just faint enough to lie below her notice, stirring the surface without puncturing it.

"A husband. Or at least a fiancé—you never did manage to get married."

"I don't—who?" she asks, blankly. "And what does this have to do with Cas?" A thought occurs to her then, jarring and alarming, and she can feel a flush collecting over her cheeks as she voices it. "I'm not married to _him, _am I?"

The Doctor laughs. It's not humorous, not animated; only a low, dry chuckle and a slight upwards tilt of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous, Pond."

"Who, then? I think you're—"

"His name was Rory Williams, and the two of you were ridiculously in love with each other."

The name is a single quick, harsh punch to her lungs, forcing her breath out, stinging furiously and then vanishing moments later, with only a ghost of an ache left behind. By the time she manages to form a coherent thought, it's nothing huge—the name sounds familiar, but only distantly, like a primary school acquaintance that she never got to know all that well. It is a fairly average name, though, so perhaps even that doesn't mean anything.

"I don't know a Rory Williams," she says, her scowl deepening. The name is disconcertingly non-foreign on her tongue, but she dismisses it.

"You did. He got erased from time, Amy, sucked into one of those cracks, the first time that we met the Silurians, back on 2020 Earth. Only a few trips before the one when we met Castiel."

"I don't know a Rory Williams," she repeats, even though her mind is screaming something else entirely—_no, no, no, please no. _"I never had a husband—what are you talking about? Why are you saying this?"

"I'm saying it because it's the truth, and it's about time you remember. I know, I know, I _know _this is hard for you, and I'm so, so sorry, but I won't let you keep forgetting any longer."

"I'm not _forgetting!"_

"Then why are you crying?"

She opens her mouth to protest, to ask him what he's saying, of _course _she's not crying, but then she tastes salt, just the faintest tangy bite. _No, no, _but she can't stop herself from reaching out and touching her cheeks, and it's there, hot dampness just like the Doctor said, but—

"No." She shakes her head, finds herself on her feet—and her legs are quivering, barely holding her up, but she ignores it, turning away from the Doctor, who has one hand half-outstretched in concern, his face fallen. "No, I never had a husband, I don't know _anyone _named Rory, and stop—just _stop it!"_

And he does stop. He doesn't bring it up again, but now she finds that she can't look at Castiel at all, because apparently that led the Doctor to whatever stupid thing about some man named Rory, and for the rest of the day, she won't speak to either of them, but instead locks herself in her bunkroom, runs her hands through her hair over and over and tries to find a way to make the senseless tears stop. She pays no regard to the Doctor's tentative knocks on the door, and not Castiel's concerned attempts to speak to her, either.

By the next morning, she's somehow taught herself to forget all over again, and for that she's grateful.

* * *

"You never told me about a Jack Harkness," she insists, folding her arms as the Doctor flips a series of coordinates into the TARDIS.

"Yes, well, there are plenty of friends of mine I've never told you about, but I figure it can't hurt to introduce you to them," the Doctor replies cheerily. "It certainly turned out well enough with Cas, right?"

At the moment, Castiel is standing silently in a corner, watching the two of them with quiet but interested eyes. Amy cocks an eyebrow and throws her gaze in the angel's direction instead.

"What about you? Has he introduced you to any Captain Jack?"

Cas shakes his head minutely, and the Doctor laughs.

"Never, but I can't wait to see just how that will work out."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Jack, see, he's a bit…" the Doctor shrugs in attempted avoidance, half-wincing and wringing his hands together. "A bit _forward. _He likes… well. You'll really have to see it for yourself."

"I guess," Amy agrees, utterly confused. The Doctor's expression is still lighthearted, though, so she figures that there's nothing extreme that he isn't telling her—nothing that she should be worried about. "He's human, right? Not an angel or anything?"

"About as human as they get, other than one little thing." The Doctor spins a final, rather unnecessary-looking wheel on the motherboard of the console, and the TARDIS lurches to life, taking them from the shores of a sixteenth-century African coast to what he claims to be modern day Cardiff.

"One little thing?" she prompts.

"Well, he's a bit… _immortal, _see. The accidental work of one of my former companions, incidentally, but it's done good for him, so I'd call it a happy mistake."

"Immortal?" Amy repeats in disbelief. "What do you mean, immortal? He just… he can't die, or…?"

"With our luck, you'll be able to see for yourself by the time we leave," the Doctor replies, seemingly only half-joking. The landing noises of the TARDIS gradually fade away, and then he springs up, rushing over to the door. "Come along, Pond, Cas—yes, perfect landing, old girl! Cardiff, Wales, 2006." He thumps the side of the TARDIS appreciatively as he kicks the door open to reveal what indeed appears to be a Cardiff plaza, a brisk wind blowing wadded-up newspaper and dead leaves over the bricks. A tall, sleek fountain punctures the ground only a few yards away, sheets of water streaking its dark length.

Amy follows as the Doctor hops out, Cas at her heels. It is indeed a rather cold day, and Amy wraps her arms around herself, gripping her elbows—she doesn't see how Castiel notices her shivers, or how he half-extends one of his arms towards her before drawing it back with abrupt haste.

There are a lot of thing about him that she doesn't see.

"He works for a place called Torchwood, see," the Doctor explains, swinging his arms as he walks along and raising his voice to be heard over the rushing breeze. "I'm not extremely fond of it, but he's with a nice enough lot, and he has the right ideas most of the time, even if Torchwood as a whole tends not to."

"What don't you like about it?" Amy has to walk at double time to keep up with him, her legs moving easily from all the practice she's accumulated over her time with him.

"They're violent," the Doctor explains shortly. "And awful at dealing with aliens. Not that you can expect much more of humans at this point in time, I suppose. Ah, well, they learn eventually."

He pauses once they reach a sidewalk, tipping his head up and squinting into the air as if waiting for something to fall out of it, or perhaps for a portal to open up. "The problem," he continues, as if only discovering this now, "is that since I've never been here before, I can't say I'm entirely sure how to _get _to the Torchwood headquarters. It's somewhere around here, but beyond that…"

Amy stifles a giggle, glancing back towards Cas, who even has a slight appreciative glow in his eyes. "You don't know where it is?" she inquires disbelievingly, turning back towards the Doctor.

"Yes, well… before, he sort of… _jumped _on the TARDIS, to phrase it in the most literal way possible, and got killed in the time vortex, but that wasn't much of a problem for him…"

This time, there's no way to suspend her giggle. It's all pretty ridiculous, and she's about to ask more about this supposed immortality when they're interrupted by a neatly dressed young Asian woman, who approaches the Doctor tentatively, raising a hand in greeting.

"Excuse me—did I hear you mention Torchwood, by any chance?"

The Doctor beams immediately. "You did indeed. I'm the Doctor, this is Amy and this is Castiel—we're looking for Captain Jack Harkness, any chance that you know him?"

Her eyes widen in surprised understanding. "The Doctor? He's mentioned you several times… he's out right now, though, can I deliver a message?"

The Doctor's face falls slightly, but he perks up again moments later. "No matter, I've got a time machine—when do you think he'll be back?"

The woman's jaw drops slightly, but then she pulls it back up, apparently deciding not to question the Doctor's mention of a time machine. She glances briefly over Amy and Castiel before answering. "Not until late tonight, probably. He said he might be at the Retro Bar, though, it's close—you could check in there in a few hours…"

"Perfect. We'll see him there, then, thank you for your help, miss…?"

"Toshiko Sato." Smiling shyly, she extends a hand, which the Doctor shakes with great enthusiasm.

"Absolutely brilliant to meet you, Miss Sato."

"And you, too. Really, Jack's always going on about his friend the Doctor… it's an honor, really."

The Doctor smiles like a five-year-old with candy, and Toshiko glances over his shoulder, giving a small wave in the direction of Amy and Castiel as well. Amy returns it, while Cas gives a short nod.

"Right, then, back to the TARDIS!" The Doctor wheels around, looping an arm around each of their shoulders, and begins marching them back towards where the blue box waits in the corner of the street. "Now, wasn't that just wonderful? Much kinder than I'd expect of a Torchwood employee, she was."

"She was sweet," Amy agrees as they burst into the TARDIS. The Doctor wastes no time in dashing over to the console and flipping the needed switches, sending them across town and a few hours into the future.

"Retro Bar, she said, right?"

"Yeah. It sounds like a… lively place." Amy leans against the wall as the TARDIS takes off.

"Oh, well, he's a lively person."

"Hopefully he will not be overly intoxicated by the time we find him," Castiel mutters under his breath.

The Doctor makes an odd noise somewhere between a laugh and a whine of protest. "Have a bit of faith in the man! He can probably take quite a bit before he begins to get drunk. And, anyways, we're going pretty early in the night. He won't have had time for more than a beer."

"Are we spending the evening there, then?" Amy inquires. "Do you even drink, Doctor?"

"We'll have to see. And occasionally—Earth liquor doesn't do wonders for me," he explains, scowling slightly. "It really is disgusting stuff, I've got no idea why you humans love it so much…"

"Only some of us." Amy shrugs. She likes a glass of wine now and then, she supposes, but alcohol overall isn't particularly appealing. "What about you, Cas?" she questions, glancing over towards where the angel has assumed his usual quiet position in the corner.

"I have tried alcohol a couple of times. It was not all that impressive."

"Agreed," Amy grins, and as the TARDIS lands, she's the first one to fling the door open and peer outside. She's greeted by a blaze of rainbow lights, so bright and intense that she hesitates in alarm. There's music, too, the heavy beats shaking the very foundation of the TARDIS, and bodies everywhere, oh, hell, "You've landed us on a _dance floor!"_

"Oh, are there dance floors?" the Doctor queries excitedly, his voice barely audible. He hurries out eagerly, and Amy follows at a slightly more cautious pace, Cas backing them as always. Amazingly, none of the crowd seems to have noticed the police box landing in the middle of them—whatever the Doctor said about it being the beginning of the night, it's rowdy enough in here to be four in the morning.

"How are we supposed to find Jack in here?" Amy half-shouts over the din. The Doctor is weaving through the swaying bodies seemingly without effort, and she's mumbling out a million apologies as she pushes people aside to reach him. It's quite a crowd in here—plenty of dyed hair, piercings, tattoos, skimpy outfits. She doesn't mind that much, but a glimpse over her shoulder shows her that it's just the opposite for Castiel—his limbs are full of so much tension that he's moving almost robotically, his eyes wide and his mouth set in a thin line. Lights dance over his face, morphing his blue irises to green and magenta and yellow and casting the hollows of his cheeks and neck into deep shadow. She's never seen him more out of place, but it's almost endearing.

Rather than answering her question, the Doctor keeps pressing on, and they move slowly around the wide room, a large portion of which is dance floor. A bar stretches along the far wall, and they gradually make their way over there—Amy realizes after a moment that the Doctor actually seems to be purposefully moving towards one person, a rather stunningly attractive man in a long, dark grey coat who's chatting with the bartender, his face split in a wide grin and a glass of unidentifiable liquid held between his fingers.

"Jack!" the Doctor calls out, and the man glances over in surprise, which almost immediately morphs to delight.

"Doctor!" he replies, then murmurs something to the bartender before hopping off of his stool and hurrying over, his arms wide. "Fancy seeing you here! How'd you find me, then?" His voice is American, she realizes with slight surprise; very distinctly so.

"We checked by Torchwood, a lovely young woman directed us here—Miss… Sato, I believe?"

"Yeah, she's one of mine. Wonderful worker, that Toshiko." His eyes rove over the Doctor's shoulder then, touching Amy and Cas in turn. "These two with you?"

"Oh, yes—my new companions. Amy and Castiel, she's human, he's an angel."

Jack's dark eyebrows rise, and he laughs lowly. "No kidding, he's an angel. How are you doing, gorgeous?"

Cas blinks his wide, dark eyes, glancing rapidly back and forth between Jack and Amy as if seeking explanation for the flirtation. Amy snickers, and the Doctor just groans.

_"Stop it."_

Jack shrugs ruefully, but still keeps an eye on Cas as he turns back to the Doctor. For some reason, it causes a slight heated prickle along Amy's neck to see him eyeing the angel like that—it's probably nothing, though, and she brushes it off absently.

"Anyways, what made you decide to come pay me a visit, huh?" Jack asks.

"Oh, just thought it might be nice—it has been a while, after all, and I thought you ought to meet Amy and Cas."

"It's spectacular to meet them both, I'll give you that," Jack chuckles, his tone slightly heavier than platonic appreciation. Amy suspects that she's starting to see what the Doctor was talking about when he mentioned 'forwardness.' "Now that you're here, though, go ahead and have a drink, why don't you? The dance floor's open, too."

_"Don't _let the Doctor dance," Amy interrupts; "it's just embarrassing."

"Embarrassing is what this place is all about," Jack contradicts, gesturing towards the waves of brightly colored, far from modestly dressed people. "He'll make himself famous."

There's something about Jack—he's kind, in a playful sort of way, and Amy can't help but like him, despite his embarrassing flirtatiousness. So when, moments later, he extends a hand and requests, in a jokingly formal manner, whether he can "have the next dance," she accepts without hesitation.

He takes her hand and leads her into the midst of the party—despite herself, she can't help but feel almost at home here. She's been to countless bars like this, after all, back in her kissogram days—she practically lived for nightclubs. Her body automatically moves to the beat of the music, twirling about, and Jack's good, too—he spins her with ease, and she's laughing, her feet skating rapidly over the floor.

"You're good," she calls out loudly, and he grins back at her, the multicolored light dancing over the whiteness of his teeth.

"So I've been told many times. You're not too bad, yourself."

"I've had practice," she returns smoothly, spinning under his arm. It's not any sort of organized dancing—the music is chaotic and rapid, and most people on the floor are moving about on their own, but Jack and Amy manage to form a sort of quick-paced partner dance, weaving back and forth.

"Maybe you should show that angel how to be a bit more lively, then," Jack suggests, drawing her into his shoulder and nodding towards the bar. The Doctor has vanished, presumably to join the dancing—Amy internally winces at the thought—but Cas still stands there quietly, his eyes down, looking almost depressingly dismal next to the energy contained in everyone else.

Her voice softens slightly. "Well, he… he does his own thing, you know. He's shy, and kind of awkward, so… I just leave him alone most of the time, I guess."

"Shy and awkward?" He twirls her out again, and for a moment they're joined only by fingertips, before he reels her in once more. "Sweetheart, there's a reason for that."

"What do you mean?"

"You mean you actually can't tell?" He laughs loudly, shaking his head. She raises her eyebrows, ducking under his arm and spinning him around.

"Can't tell what?"

"That guy's _infatuated _with you, ginger. The way he looks at you when you're facing the other direction, oh, man." He shakes his head, still chuckling, and she slows down, her hand dropping from his for a second. For no apparent reason, her heart is suddenly thudding with alarming intensity, and she sneaks another glance at Castiel, silent and attentive in the corner, waiting, just like always.

"What… really?" She can barely hear her own hushed voice, but apparently Jack can.

"It's pretty obvious, I have to say. That's a fantastic display of naïveté you've got going on there, sugar—one of the best I've seen, and I've had to work with Owen Harper and Tosh Sato for _years._"

It's like the ground is spinning below her feet. Suddenly, it's all coming back to her—the way he always avoids her gaze, responds to all her inquiries with soft, short replies; how he'd apologized for her finding him back when he was stabbed; the fire in his eyes when he rescued her from the Silurian, the very first night they met.

"Well?" Jack prompts. "Is he padding after something he's never gonna get, or do you fancy him a bit, too?"

Rather than answering, Amy finds her feet carrying her across the dance floor, her head and stomach spinning. She doesn't know what she's about to do—she only thinks about the next step forward, until she's within feet of him, and his dark, brilliant blue eyes shift around to focus on her. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, and she still doesn't think, but instead reaches up, winds her hands behind his neck, and kisses him as hard and fierce as she can—not for long, only enough to feel his immediate stunned stiffness begin to relax, for his hand to come up and brush along her shoulder, for a small, relieved breath to coast out from between his lips, touch her own. Then she pulls back and gets a good look at him—he's _completely _flushed, his eyes wide and confused, but there's also a sort of amazed light to them—blissful.

"Alright, you idiot," she laughs, taking him by the hand and pulling—he follows her easily as she turns around, her red hair flying, and marches back towards the riotous mass of people. "Come dance with me."


End file.
